


Aberrant

by FreshBrains



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Canon Timeline, Coercion, Community: femslash_today, Domestic Violence, F/F, Homophobic Language, Married Couple, Mind Games, POV Margo, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a fucking monster.”</p><p>“No,” Amy says, smoothing out her bloodstained hair, the color stark against the frosty blonde. “I’m your fucking wife.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aberrant

**Author's Note:**

> For the LJ femslash_today [Cold Snap: Winter 2015 Porn Battle](http://femslash-today.livejournal.com/620853.html) prompt: _Gone Girl, Amy Elliott-Dunne/ Margo Dunne - Violence._
> 
> Complete canon-typical events and characterization with Margo and Nick's roles swapped.

When Amy kisses her, it’s like a bullet shot right into her mouth, shattering her teeth, splitting her tongue, filling her slowly with warm, sweet blood. Amy’s hands are sticky—coated with _someone’s_ blood, tacky and old—and they cling to Margo’s cheeks.

“Stop,” Margo says, “just fucking _stop_.” But the words are too soft, too slow for a woman like Amy. They always have been. While everyone else saw Margo as the tough-talking, laidback, foul-mouthed twin with the hot wife, Amy always saw her as a little mouse squealing for help with its claw caught in a trap.

“Run a bath for me, Margie,” Amy says, using the abhorrent nickname only _she_ could ever get away with. She presses another sticky kiss to Margo’s trembling mouth. “Then we’ll talk.”

Instead of listening, as she always did, as she has ever since they met that night in the city, Margot grabs Amy by the forearm and slams her up hard against the linen closet door in the hallway. There are a thousand things she wants to ask— _where were you? Why did you come back? Why, why,_ any _of this, why?_ But instead, she lets those hanging questions slide into her veins, shudder and shape into anger, and shakes Amy _hard_.

“Oh, come on,” Amy says, voice like honey. “Don’t be the angry dyke who kills her poor, kidnapped wife in a fit of psychotic rage.” She doesn’t smile—she just speaks. “You’re terrible on TV. You’re so pathetic and angry they’re all eating out the palm of your hand.”

“Nick knew it,” Margo says, voice raw. “Nick knew you were still alive. He’s always been afraid of you, but _god_ , I never thought he’d be capable of figuring you out.” Her brother never trusted Amy, not from day one. He couldn’t hold down a job or relationship to save his life, but he always gave his two cents when it came to Margo’s relationships. And he wanted Margo far, far away from the pretty Ivy League Lesbian who stuck her nose up at owning a bar and refused to go in for the IVF treatments after they failed for Margo.

“Nick hasn’t figured me out,” Amy says, and shoves Margo away.

Margo stumbles against the bathroom door, the knob digging into her back. She realizes that this is the first time Amy had ever laid hands on her. She pauses, mouth agape, and adjusts her glasses. “Good fucking lord, Amy,” she whispers, keeping her distance. “Just what _are_ you capable of?”

“What am I capable of?” Amy lunges, catching Margo by her forearms, nails like claws. “I fucked you better than any bitch you’d ever met before and anyone you’ll meet after. I made you _beg_ for it, Margie, I made it _perfect_ ,” she hisses, scratching hard at Margo’s arms. She stops, eyes dark like oil. “You had it perfect with me.”

Margo thinks of the ways Amy could kiss her, touch her. Make love to her for hours until they were both exhausted from it, delirious from it. “That was nothing,” she says, voice shaking. “That was all lies. All of it. You’re insane.”

“And I’m _home_ ,” Amy says, mouth curving into a beaming, practiced grin. She digs her nails in deeper, drawing a hoarse cry from Margo’s throat. “The missing wife of a local small-business owner returns home at last.” She shoves a knee between Margo’s legs, trying to get at the most intimate part of her, strip back anything Margo has managed to keep hidden. “You won’t turn me away. Not now.”

Margo leans back against the door, head banging against the wood. She begins to cry. Amy's right—She can’t turn her away. Not now, at least. Not with the world watching. “You’re a fucking monster.”

“No,” Amy says, smoothing out her bloodstained hair, the rich color stark against the frosty blonde. “I’m your fucking wife.”


End file.
